


Whoever you love

by WahlBuilder



Series: Peonies [1]
Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Feels, Dancing, Falling In Love, First Dates, Flowers, M/M, Origami, Secret Identity, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Vigilantism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 14:21:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18693277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Four years ago, Anton has left all his life behind on a quest to set some things right in the world. But however careful he's been, now there is a detective on his tail.Viktor has picked several cases out of habit, but then he notices patterns that lead him to a conclusion there is a vigilante killer operating in the country.It's two-fold, both of them are the hunter and the hunted. But then, it becomes something other than this simplicity.





	Whoever you love

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, born under the cheers of my trashcan comrades (and out of my need to torture V and A).

Anton has had enough, all right, he’s seen enough shit and he decided to take matters into his hands in a very personal and final way, so he’s been doing his “justice killings”, and he notices that there is someone... Some particular detective, apparently following him.

Anton has been very, very good and careful—but he keeps hearing about that detective, and it seems the man is on Anton now.

So he leaves a flower on one of the corpses. As a sort of taunt and to see what would happen.

He is careful to stay “clean”, to not leave any signs the killings are carried by the same person. His targets are different people—the only thing that unites them is that they are guilty of doing unspeakable things.

But the flower. Oh, he knows it might lead to him, but he can’t resist leaving it for that detective. Wondering whether he’d pick up on it.

He leaves a flower on his next target, and the next... And yes, the detective is on his trail.

Anton is always meticulous, and his targets inspire little more than anger and remorse, and he usually keeps his head cool (as much as that might apply to him).

But the detective... Oh, the detective. He hasn’t seen the man’s face, but the very thought of the detective sets his blood ablaze in an entirely different way. The rush of a hunt. His targets are his prey—but defenseless compared to him, and there is never the sweet rush.

And he’s been alone for so long, keeping away from those he loves, his friends, so if ( _when_ ) it comes down around him, it won’t affect them.

But here, he feels a connection. He doesn’t know why.

He keeps leaving flowers.

He never bothered “explaining” himself, because the police never bothered with those fuckers in the first place, or was bought by them, so he just unearthed their deeds, executed them, and moved on to the next hunt.

But he starts leaving... clues. Papers baring the target’s guilt. Emails, notes, hacked phones... Somehow, for some reason, it is important that the detective understands.

Viktor picked several cases, as he usually does because, contrary to the guidelines and “common sense”, he thinks better when he has several cases; plus, there is so much work, always, and he often suffers from insomnia anyway...

And he noticed the patterns. He is very good at noticing the patterns. Even though anybody else would have overlooked, because those patterns made sense only if you looked a particular way, if your mind worked a particular way...

And they were not much.

The patterns were: filth to hide and very “clean” (as in, the police and other agents had no clue whatsoever) killings.

Nothing else. Not age, class, affluence, appearance; no pattern in geographical scattering. Just... this. Those two things, and Viktor’s instincts and experience telling him the four cases he picked up were connected.

Viktor tries to keep pace. He has the authority to monitor all other cases, and he picks immediately those that he knows (sometimes, he simply _knows_ ) are his. And he knows he has to stay hidden for now. He still has no clues as to the identity of the killer.

Viktor has seen many murderers, killers, traitors, racketeers, corrupt politicians that stayed clean while others murdered for them. Everyone makes mistakes. _Everyone_. There is no such thing as a “clean” crime, there are only lazy agents and police officers (or, corrupt ones). Viktor always finds those responsible, and he doesn’t care how much power they have.

But here, it’s something different. But, he can’t present intuition and his two patterns to the jury.

The killer must think themself very clever, they must think nobody suspects it is done by one person—so, the killer (the assassin, the executioner) can’t suspect there’s someone following them.

But then, the flowers appear.

And Viktor knows he’s in it too deep and the killer _knows_.

Viktor checks the flowers, though he doesn’t expect his killer (he frowns when he catches himself calling that murderer “his”) to slip up so easily. And just as predicted, there is no pattern to the acquirement of flowers, to their sources or anything of the sort. Just the fact that they are always peonies. They are different cultivars, different “habits” (he finds out everything there is to know about peonies; he can tell the cultivars by looks alone). But they are always peonies.

One time, there is a whole bouquet fixed between the victim’s ribs.

Viktor is... impressed. By everything. And it’s very fitting, in his mind, to find out that his killer has a thing for theatrics (a little) and an aesthetic sense. (The flowers are stunningly beautiful.)

Then, the papers start appearing, too. (The body count has long gone into dozens, and Viktor keeps discovering past cases that he knows fit his killer, too.)

It’s strange, it feels personal, like the flowers, but as though his killer seeks... not absolution and it’s not that he tries to get himself caught, like some others do, but rather Viktor feels the need for... understanding.

Viktor is certain it’s a man.

(Sometimes, so late in the night it’s already considered early, he imagines and wonders...)

He wonders also what would happen when the season of peonies passes. Will there be different flowers? Will there be no flowers at all?..

The height of summer comes, and there are peonies still... but paper ones now. Stuffed into the corpse’s throat, pinned to their chest (literally, right to the skin). Or dried. One time, it’s a jar of peony jam, and Viktor rolls his eyes.

There is a policy that, when a detective is too close to a case, they must step away. But there’s nothing close here, not in the usual sense—and yet Viktor feels him and his killer understand each other. He wishes to meet his killer, not as a target, not as a criminal to arrest—but as an equal, as someone who would— Viktor stops his thinking there.

Viktor would threaten, blackmail, bribe, beat, lie to get the results, the information he needs. And here, he doesn’t need to work much to get information on the victims. It’s difficult for him to think of them as victims, considering the things they did and tried to hide. And he... understands. The need not even for justice, but to put at least one wrong right. Sometimes he wondered, too, whether shooting a bullet through the skull of some bastard would be better, would make the world a better place. Viktor did have cases when there was plenty of evidence and there was a trial—but the bastards still managed to get away.

(One night, sitting at his desk and holding a paper peony, he unfolds it, interested to learn how it works—and finds that the sheet of paper it is made from contains verses in French. _Les Fleurs du Mal_ , the most visceral lines.)

Anton keeps leave all those little things—but he never stays to see who picks them up, doesn’t monitor city traffic... He doesn’t want to discover the identity of his detective like that, too easily, too... Intrusive. He’d like to meet his detective when the detective is ready.

Sometimes the clues and evidence he leaves lead to big arrests, and he is pleased.

He wonders at his detective. Old? Young? No, not too young, not green—but not old either, wouldn’t be able to keep pace with Anton.

(Tall? Short? Broad and muscular? Lean and fast? Eye color? The shape of the mouth? Long fingers? The timbre of the voice?

Anton imagines...)

He hasn’t been home for years. He doesn’t even keep contact with his family. Sometimes he calls them (he doesn’t allow himself do it more than once in a couple months), and... They stopped asking questions ages ago, they know he won’t answer where he is. He suspects Dandolo keeps tabs on him, because Dandolo knows everything, but that’s all. He has contacts he uses to provide him with information or assistance when needed. But other than that, he’s been on his own all these years. He doesn’t even keep photos of his family—it’s an additional measure of protection for them.

When he’s hit by the Bad Days, he’s on his own. The gang is doing well without him, so maybe they don’t need him at all, maybe they didn’t need him in the first place. And his task... It feels futile. He kills one, but there are many other fuckers. And often they are ordinary people, as in, they have families. Spouses, kids, friends, those who don’t know anything about their filth, and mourn them.

Maybe he should give up, let his detective find him. They’d have a lot to discuss.

He wonders whether his detective even likes peonies (whether his detective discovered the poetry lines hidden in the paper flowers). Maybe he should use different flowers? Roses? Maybe not flowers at all... He should drop this silliness, though. It draws attention, especially the attention of his detective—but, that’s the point. Before, it was a taunt, but now that he leaves evidence and knows it will be used to serve justice (his detective is clearly someone who can’t be bribed or intimidated—which makes Anton wonder whether the detective has a family or loved ones), he can’t stop. They are like... partners in this. Helping each other uncover things those bastards would love to stay hidden.

***

Anton has been between his hunts, letting himself unwind, researching potential targets, and fighting low moods. It’s a town that doesn’t know him, and he likes it. To sit at a cafe, watch the people go about their lives. Teenagers flirting awkwardly, friends meeting for lunch... (He misses his friends terribly.)

He gets a little lost in his thoughts when he notices that the jacket he’s taken off and threw over the back of his couch is... not there.

But there is another jacket, heavy wool with leather patches on the shoulders. And then there is someone rushing into the cafe, looking disheveled, and then coming to his table. “I’m sorry. I think I accidentally took your jacket.”

Anton chuckles. “It looks good on you, even though a bit short.”

And it does, stretched a little over the shoulders, though obviously borrowed, with enough room underneath. The man stops for moment, then continues taking it off, and Anton gives him the wool jacket.

“I’m so sorry,” the man repeats again. “Can I buy you a coffee as an apology?”

He should refuse. He tries not to connect with anyone. He can’t afford bringing danger to other people.

But it’s nothing, just a meeting of strangers.

He smiles. “Tea is better.”

The man nods and goes to make an order, and Anton takes his chance to take a proper look. Tall but not gangly. Elegant, even, though his hair cropped unevenly, and not in the top fashion sense. Shapely legs—a runner or a dancer, or at least walks a lot. Long fingers. Clean-shaven. And his voice... Not an office worker, that’s certain, but not a businessman either, dressed too nicely for that and has no car. A university professor? Perhaps, but certainly not going to or off work, because there’s no bag of any kind. More likely, an artistic type. Very precise in his movements, nothing redundant, nothing fidgety...

Gods, Anton needs a hobby.

He gets up and goes to the counter and asks for slices of chocolate cake, too. “Tea on you,” he tells the man, smiling, “and cakes on me. I insist.”

The man smiles in return. It’s small and cautious, as though he’s not used to this. “All right.”

They return to their booth (Anton noting just how tall the man is), settle down.

“Too much on your mind?”

The man smiles again. “Yes. I’m sorry. It’s unlike me, to be so... unaware.”

“It happens. Tony.” He sticks out his hand.

“Viktor.”

The man has cold hands and a firm grip, and it is cut short. Doesn’t like being touched. Anton already regrets offering his hand. The situation is awkward as it is.

Viktor frowns, pats his jacket, then looks at Anton. “I... seem to have put my notebook into your jacket, too.”

He laughs. “And here I wondered why it seemed heavier than usual.” He reaches into the inner pocket, and yes, there is a small black book with bits and pieces sticking out of it.

It turns out that his guess is accurate: Viktor is indeed an artist. He shows Anton his drawings: mostly in ink, and mostly peonies, meticulously studied, but there is enough geometry, too. Animals and birds and flowers as though breaking from crystal prison. The designs show a very steady hand, and Viktor proves it when Anton asks him whether he can draw a circle with only a pen. It comes out so perfect it’s unbelievable, and Anton doesn’t hide his amazement. (And Viktor looks a little awkward. He’s definitely not used to praise.)

They discuss peonies. Viktor says he studies their different varieties for his designs. Anton admits he just likes the flowers, he doesn’t exactly know much about cultivars and all that. But he knows about the symbolism, that in most Western cultures they symbolize bashfulness and shame, but in Eastern cultures they are a noble, masculine flower—or a symbol of recklessness and love that doesn’t care about risks. He finds it interesting. Also, peonies taste good.

When Viktor asks him about his activities, he shrugs. “I do odd jobs. I like traveling. No commitments, no home... I just roam about.” But Viktor has an astonished expression, and Anton frowns. It’s not entirely a lie, so what’s wrong?

Viktor chuckles. (It’s handsome, too.) “I’m sorry. You look like...”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. A university professor turned a biker? Or the other way around.”

It makes Anton laugh. “It’d be such a waste, because I can’t drive well. Though, rather... I just have to speed up, I can’t help it.” It’s such a problem, to keep himself in control, but he has to, because he has to avoid accidents and drawing attention to himself.

Viktor has an intense curiosity in his eyes. It’s strange, because there are moments (fractions of a second) when the expression on his face doesn’t match the one in his eyes. “You like risk?”

Anton shrugs. “Sometimes.”

They talk more (nearly forgetting about the tea and cakes). Viktor says he’s come to this town for a peony festival: it’s not as big as others, but that’s exactly why he came here. Fewer people, and more chances to actually see something, to make sketches, to talk to the flower-growers.

And, one word and another—and Anton finds himself agreeing to meet at that festival in a few days’ time.

(It’s not a date. It’s nothing, and, oh gods, he should have declined the invitation.

But he likes Viktor’s company, and he’d like to see him draw, and he wants to talk more...)

The two days between that meeting at the cafe and the festival, Anton can’t stop thinking about Viktor. He’s just playing all the scenarios in his head, that’s all.

He imagines his detective interrogating Viktor. “What did you talk about, Mr Artist?” — “He told me how to candy peony petals, that’s all.” — “Do you have dirty secrets, Mr Artist?” — “Er, no. Why?” — “You could have been his next victim.” — “We talked about flowers, that’s all...”

That’s all.

The day of the festival, Anton puts on a fancy shirt not because it’s a date. He’s simply out of other shirts. It’s nothing. He’s keeping a low profile. He’s not bringing a bouquet because it’s not a date, not because it would look strange while they are going to a flowers festival.

And Viktor panics a little. He shouldn’t have shown his black book to a stranger... But, no, no. He’s using a system of codes and ciphers, and it is made to look like a regular planner-notebook-sketchbook (he does keep grocery lists in it, too, for authenticity), so it’s nothing.

He doesn’t know what compelled him to show his drawings. He felt... that Tony (Anthony? Antoine? He speaks with a faint French accent) would appreciate not only the drawings, but the skill put into them, too. And he was right. And Tony wasn’t put off by his more... morbid sketches (peonies flowering through bones).

Tony is interested in peonies, so Viktor has a chance to learn more. Viktor curses himself because somehow, he hasn’t thought of the symbolism angle. Bashfulness and recklessness. Fitting for his killer. Keeping low. Many serial killers (which, Viktor has decided long ago, his killer is not) want fame. Even regular murderers sometimes want it, too. But his killer is not like that. He’s just doing his duty, the way he understands it. Just like Viktor himself.

Viktor, truly, has come here for the festival—but also to unwind. To think, away from the HQ, from everything.

He has to decide what to do. All this time, he’s been keeping his killer to himself, away from the Board. And he has seen the crimes of the “victims” laid out, and he... Maybe he started to think he should keep his killer under wraps longer. Uncovering the dirt on the victims helped divert the Board’s attention: Viktor could say he picked their cases exactly because of that dirt. And the executions are so clean, sometimes even made to look like accidents, and Viktor can keep to himself the fact that it’s one man doing it. A very capable, infinitely resourceful and versatile man: sniping, knifing, poisoning, inciting shootouts and car malfunctions... Viktor would have thought it’s a whole huge team—but he knows it’s just one man.

Viktor has come to the realization that he’s torn in his loyalties. He has to do his duty, true, to drag his killer off the streets and make him answer for his many crimes. But... his killer managed to uncover so many crimes and take out those who thought they could escape retribution.

Many agents think of themselves as good men doing a good job of stopping evil men. Viktor never thought of himself as a good man. He’s just someone who does his job, does what’s necessary to keep other people safe. He knows there are very few actually good people—most people are just ordinary. And there is enough ordinary evil in them. He can’t blame them when they decide they won’t go against a corrupt politician threatening their family, their job...

He doesn’t blame anyone, he just does his own job.

He thinks that him and his killer have a lot in common. Which is not as disturbing as it should be.

He knows he shouldn’t think like that. To let himself settle in the false assumption that he understands his killer. But that feeling as though they have that understanding doesn’t leave him.

And that’s one of the many thinks plaguing him lately, one of the things he hopes to settle for himself while he’s here on this research-vacation.

And so what that he has a company now? He’s been in his head for so long, his only companion has been his killer, in a way, day and night.

It’s some kind of joke of the universe that Tony shows up in a light shirt—perfectly understandable, because it’s late summer, the kind of days with unpredictable weather when you have to wear something light but keep a jacket just in case of rain or cold wind—and it’s thin and there are dark shapes underneath that can only be tattoos and Viktor’s fingers ache to draw.

The festival has not only flowers, but also things made from them. They taste peony jams, but none taste as good as that one Viktor received from his killer.

Tony by his side grumbles, “Too much citric acid... Too short steeping... Wrong flowers...”

Viktor chuckles. “I see you really like putting peonies to culinary use.”

Anton shrugs. “They taste good. Were you always interested in peonies?”

Viktor smiles. “Someone made me interested.”

His smile is such a small, gentle thing that Anton is a little jealous. That person is certainly someone special for Viktor.

The festival, though being small, local, still attracts enough people. Families with kids and without, friends... And Anton aches. He wonders: if he were to stop right now and return— But he can’t stop. The only way is when he gets stopped by his detective—or a target that gets too lucky.

He hasn’t seen Ez for four years. Ez is a young man now, and probably hates Anton for leaving without saying anything. The few times Anton called him, Ez cut it the moment he heard Anton’s voice.

He misses all of them so much.

Viktor notices that his companion has gone quiet, and asks, “Is something wrong?”

Tony shakes himself, rubs the back of his neck. “It’s nothing. Just... thinking.”

Viktor watches him watching a big group of teens passing by. “Missing someone?”

Tony smiles, quick and wistful. “Yeah. Family. But it’s not easy to... They are far away.”

“Europe?”

Tony looks at him with surprise, then nods. “Yeah. Europe. How did you know?”

“Just a guess. You have a faint accent. Just a little bit.” He casts his eyes down. “I’m sorry. I might have paid too much attention to your voice.”

They take a break from roaming the rows of flowers at the summer cafe right on site of the festival, sharing a bowl of peony-flavored ice-cream (it-is-not-a-date), and Tony starts folding a peony out of paper, almost absent-mindedly.

Viktor freezes.

He can’t look away from Tony’s hands. How he folds the paper so very carefully, edge to edge, then drags a nail over the fold, then turns the square and makes another fold, so effortlessly, his hands working as though without him even noticing...

A child watches him just as mesmerized, and Tony notices and smiles, and takes another tissue and makes another peony, so delicate and soft, and gives it to the kid.

Tony looks up, catching his gaze, and smiles at him, too (Viktor notices color rising to his cheeks).

Viktor asks to teach him to fold it, but the first time he’s too engrossed in watching Tony’s hands.

It should be impossible. Tony takes a paper napkin and pries the layers apart, and they are so thin but apparently his fingers are sensitive and nimble enough to handle the tissue paper with care and not tear it. Then he folds the flower from several layers, and it looks even more delicate than actual flowers. “Well, this is ah. A more complex way of folding it, but I can show you a much simpler way.”

Viktor knows. He knows, because he has several of such flowers, folded differently: from five sheets, from one, from crepe paper, even one from banknotes.

“You are so good at this,” Viktor breathes out, touching the tissue flower. Careful not to breathe at it.

Tony chuckles. “I folded a lot of these.” He pushes another, simpler one towards Viktor. “Started for a... friend, and now I find it very soothing. Keeps my hands busy when I’m thinking.”

Viktor looks at him again, smiling in a deliberately private way. “So, you have restless hands?”

The color that rushes up Tony’s neck and to his cheeks is very beautiful.

Viktor’s praise is very flattering and his flirting... No, Anton tells himself. It’s not flirting. Just casual remarks.

Viktor’s interest is astonishing, too, and Anton teaches him several folds. Viktor focuses on it to the exclusion of everything else, and Anton has to gently remind him about the ice-cream—and he wishes he didn’t, because Viktor scoops up a spoonful and licks it off, then places the spoon into his mouth while making another fold, a tiny frown between his delicate brows...

By the gods.

Viktor doesn’t stop until he’s perfected every fold and all sequences of folds.

“Vitya, ice—” He falls silent when Viktor takes another tissue square and makes a drawing of a peony in quick strokes, and Anton wants to say that the ink will bleed—but it looks like Viktor anticipated that because it bleeds perfectly, making the flower into one of those with frayed petals, and then Viktor uses the tissue with the drawing to fold a peony.

Just like Anton did with the verses from _Les Fleurs_.

“For you.” Viktor puts the flower in front of Tony, licking the spoon. “I want a smoke. Do they have a designated area?” He has noticed it himself, but he wants to test one theory.

Tony picks the inked flower, turns it in his hand. Then shakes himself. “Yeah. I think they do? Come on.” He takes the ice-cream bowl, too.

Viktor gathers all the paper flowers and puts them carefully in the inner pocket of his jacket. For research. Nothing more.

Tony seems to be lost in thought, though somehow alert to his surroundings, too, leading the way.

A balloon pops, and Tony moves immediately between Viktor and the sound, scanning his surroundings, reaching to his side... Where one might have a shoulder holster. Interesting.

Then Tony relaxes and leads them to the smoking area.

Viktor takes out his cigarette case, offers to Tony, but the man shakes his head no, picking the ice-cream instead. Doesn’t move away, though, his eyes in the middle-distance.

Viktor takes a drag (Tony flicking a glance at him doesn’t escape his notice). Thinking.

Then it clicks. “You’re from Russia.”

Tony’s shoulders tense up again under the thin shirt (so broad; and all the tattoos... ‘Odd jobs’. What kind of jobs bring enough money that he can afford such extensive inking?). “Yes. Why?”

Viktor chuckles, more at himself. “But you have a French accent.”

“I lived in France for a while.”

Interesting.

“And served in the army?”

He almost regrets asking, because Tony squares his shoulders. “Yeah.” Then he closes his eyes and exhales. “...The balloon. Fuck.”

“Yes. The balloon.” But soldiers don’t carry weapons in a shoulder holster. Maybe he used to be a police officer. Or, an absurd thought, maybe he’s a fellow special agent. Life is full of funny little things like that. It would explain France and a French accent.

(Suddenly he is really, really interested in hearing Tony speak French.)

_Or maybe you are just paranoid. Just enjoy your not-really-a-date, why don’t you?_

He actually feels bad because Tony’s shoulders don’t relax, and his grip on the bowl and the spoon is too tight.

_Couldn’t not analyze even while on a vacation, could you? Now you ruined it. Well done, detective._

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I just notice things. I know many ex-soldiers, and I... I’m sorry.”

Anton shakes his head. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he’s so angry with himself. He’s gone so arrogant because of his successes and so, so relaxed because of Viktor ( _‘Vitya’. You stupid fuck, you gave yourself away..._ ), he should get a grip.

“No. It’s nothing,” he murmurs, taking the ice-cream, but it feels too sugary on his tongue. “Oh gods, this is awful. Nobody here knows how to make a proper peony jam,” he grumbles, staring at the bowl with full offense. “It should have a tart to it, not be entirely sweet.”

Viktor chuckles. He has a low, throaty chuckle, so low you have to stand close to hear it. “You are such an interesting man, Tony.”

Anton licks his lips. “Not true.”

His heart skips a beat when cold fingers touch the corner of his mouth.

“You have some...”

He shoots a gaze at Viktor, and Viktor is licking his fingers absently, his eyes on Anton’s mouth...

Блядство.

Then their gazes meet, and something, a strange burning something that calls to Anton—it retreats. So very fast he thinks he’s imagined it.

He keeps imagining things. His paranoia keeps him imagining things. So what that Viktor noticed his reaction to the fucking balloon or guessed that he’s Russian? It’s nothing. He’s such an idiot that it’s become obvious.

“Tony? Do you dance?”

He realizes he’s been staring at Viktor, trying to decipher his tiniest expressions. “Do I what?”

“Dance. They are going to have dancing later in the afternoon. And I thought we could...” Viktor glances away, taking another drag. (He has such a way of holding the cigarette, gods...)

It takes Anton another moment to realize that Viktor wants to dance with him.

“I’m... Depends,” he replies lamely.

“Depends on what?” Viktor wears a small smile that highlights the crow’s feet at his eyes, and makes Anton wonder at his age. He looks so young when he smiles, but much older when he frowns.

“On what kind of dance it is...”

Viktor laughs. It’s inaudible, and it lights up his eyes even more. “Tony, it’s not a contest.”

Heat creeps up his neck again, and he groans. “Sorry. It’s just... been a while.”

“Since when?” Viktor asks, the laughter still in his tone, in the curving of his mouth, in his eyes more than anything else.

“Since I... Since I had a date,” he murmurs, his heart hammering. It’s not a date, though, he shouldn’t assume, he’s making Viktor uncomfortable...

“For me, too.” Viktor is already looking aside, though that light doesn’t leave his eyes.

“Hard to believe. You are so...”

Viktor quirks a brow, and it’s so impossibly handsome, ohgods, how is he real? “So?”

“So...” Anton tries to find words that wouldn’t be too embarrassing. “Beautiful.” _Well done, you idiot._

‘Beautiful’. Nobody has ever called him that. Handsome, yes, pretty, a couple of very uncomfortable but necessary for the mission times. Attractive. Charming. Ravishing, even.

And he thinks that Tony means not only his looks.

But, he can’t mean it like that, can he? Viktor is struck by the urge to prove him wrong. There is nothing beautiful about him. He lies, cheats, threatens, punches—by necessity, yes, but without remorse or pity. He keeps people away. He can’t connect with them, he is...

_A freak._

“I’m not beautiful,” he says quietly.

“You are!” Tony says with heat of anger in his voice. Anger?

But it doesn’t seem to be directed on Viktor, and it’s so quick, he’s never seen anyone being filled with anger so quickly. Tony bites his lips, and clenches a fist and closes his eyes tightly, as though retreating into himself to deal with it. Then his body relaxes.

Astonishing.

It seems Tony is used to controlling such bouts of anger.

Is it something like this that drives his killer? The planted clues and the victims’ deeds suggest so. Anger at injustice, filth, unspeakable things done out of greed, hatred, lust... Out of treating people like things. Anger that rouse and rouse, grew bigger and bigger until the man couldn’t stand it anymore and had to act. But instead of allowing it to blind him, he tamed it and used it to fuel himself. To give him clarity, to give him energy, to steady his hand.

Astonishing.

“Tony? Are you all right?”

The man nods. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry. And I’m sorry I... insisted. You know yourself better, of course.”

“Anton. The name’s Anton, right?”

Tense again. “Yeah.”

“Tosha?” He smiles, and he shouldn’t be so warmed by his companion’s surprised and pleased expression. Speaking of... “May I, ah... Look at your eyes?”

Anton—Tosha—frowns. So expressive. “If you want.”

Viktor moves to stand in front of him, but of course with his height he blocks out most of the light, so he closes his fingers on Tosha’s chin and tilts his face up carefully.

Yes, unusual eyes, so very beautiful. The light makes them into pale gold—but there is that shade, those specks of darkness. Like blood. Viktor doesn’t often draw people, but Tosha deserves to be sketched at least. Considering that they will part ways soon...

He tells himself he lingers just to study Anton’s face better. The slant of his eyes, his aquiline nose (his nose alone deserves a portrait; it’s obvious it was broken several times, but the shape is natural). Dark eyelashes, and brows as though made with two strokes of a brush. Frown lines—and the bow of his mouth.

India ink for the portrait. Sharp lines—and soft shadows.

A 3/4 portrait, to show the shape of his mouth and his nose, and the pointy ears...

“Vitya?”

He lets go and makes a few steps back. “I’m sorry. You make me want to draw.”

The cold where Viktor held his face lingers. It’s hot—and Viktor has cold hands. Anton focuses on that cold—because otherwise Viktor’s words would make his mind go... places. Viktor’s words, and his intense attention. While Viktor watched him, he watched Viktor, and there was something hound-like in his eyes.

_Shouldn’t have let him memorize your face._

Not because Viktor might give the descrip— Блядство, he can draw the full portrait—but that’s not what worries Anton.

What worries him is that he might bring danger to Vitya. He doesn’t want that. They will have this not-exactly-a-date, and then he will leave without a word.

Not for the first time.

It is so warm, but there is a slight wind that makes it just perfect, and some bird is singing without a pause, and there are distant voices of people having a good walk among beautiful flowers... And, fuck everything.

“Yes, Vitya. I will dance with you.”

Vitya’s smile lights up his eyes again.

Tosha turns up to be a very good dancer, with incredible spatial and bodily awareness, and he knows a lot of dances. (Viktor shuts away the voice in his head suggesting explanations, theories, assumptions...)

Viktor hasn’t had so much fun, especially when it comes to something physical, in a very long time. _Years_. Yes, he dances sometimes when a case, a mission demands it—but it’s work. A part of his cover, or a way to obtain information, to get into someone’s personal space.

Not like this.

His mind simply stops whirring. And he doesn’t worry that he might get some movement wrong, or run into someone (there are so many enthusiastic dancers around them), Tosha leads him away from the danger of collision, and talks with other dancers between songs while Viktor catches his breath.

It’s so good, and in the golden light of the afternoon soon he simply lets himself feel, and move. And admire Tosha. His body, his grace and the prowling, cat-like ease of his movements, his muscular form and soft steps. His expressive face. His voice, husky—Viktor wouldn’t be able to mistake it for anyone else’s. The accent (he hears it now that there are two, French and Russian), thickening from time to time.

The next song sends most of the other dancers to the side, partially because they must be tired, but also... It’s tango, oh. And Tosha has a little smirk, and a challenge in his strange, captivating eyes.

And Viktor can’t resist. He won’t back down from this challenge.

Though Viktor has a lick of worry, because, oh tango, with its changing rhythms and tempo, and complex figures, and there are so many versions... But he stops thinking the moment he is in Anton’s arms.

They fit so perfectly together.

He lets himself go, moving with the music, but even more than that, with Tosha. Barely breaking eye contact, flowing against each other and with each other, all _ganchos_ and _sacadas_ natural, without even thinking, switching roles so fluidly...

But in the middle of the song, something changes between them. Not this complete understanding, but the mood, something melancholic to it now that makes Viktor’s racing heart ache painfully.

He doesn’t want all this to stop.

They end the dance in a full embrace, and Viktor doesn’t heed the cheers and clapping of the people around them. Tosha is hot against him, their body heat seeping through their clothes, and mingling, and both of them are breathing hard—but not only because of the dance. Tosha’s embrace is bordering on painful, so tight it is, but Viktor is no better himself, all but clawing at the fabric of Anton’s shirt on his back. He doesn’t want to break away.

But Anton moves out of the embrace, no, _no_ , he doesn’t want to…

And Anton isn’t looking at him, how can’t he not look at him when Viktor’s heart is unraveling, bleeding like ink on tissue paper?

Anton looks at his watch (on the right wrist, sitting below four leather and beads bracelets), and it doesn’t matter that people are still cheering or that another song starts playing, it is all muted when Anton says, “My bus is in two hours.”

Viktor makes a step. Another, as though pulled by a magnet, feeling like Anton is gripping his throat. “Please.”

Anton licks his lips, not looking at him. “Don’t see me away. Please.”

He presses the back of his hand to his mouth, then nods and whispers, “All right.” Though it’s not all right.

And then Anton moves, so fast and light, and his hands are on Viktor’s neck, and they pull him down, and Anton presses a kiss to his cheek, soft, barely there, but it burns like a cold brand on his heated skin.

“Thank you, Vitya. For everything.”

And before he can do anything, call him, hold him, Tosha has already slipped through his fingers and disappeared, and Viktor can’t _find_ him no matter how he looks, no matter how much he pushes himself through the crowd.

Not a trace.

Viktor’s head swims, the kiss on his cheek lingers, it can’t be just a…

He searches for his jacket, finds it thrown over one of the chairs near the dancing place, so recklessly left (but he didn’t care, he just wanted—), and he sticks his hand into the inner pocket—and flowers are still there.

His legs give up and he falls into a plastic chair, stroking the delicate tissue paper petals.

Peonies surround him.


End file.
